


Can’t Wait (Thinking About You And Me)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bartender!Erik, Birthday Presents, Confessions, Falling In Love, Grad-Student!Charles, M/M, References to Abuse, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Charles’s birthday, though he might’ve on-purpose-forgotten to tell Erik about that fact before they ended up in bed…cue some miscommunication, some angst, and some first-time I-love-yous. Also tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can’t Wait (Thinking About You And Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocky_slash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Can’t Wait (Thinking About You And Me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446204) by [Shame_i_translate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_i_translate/pseuds/Shame_i_translate)



> Title from the Foo Fighters’ cover of “Danny Says,” originally by The Ramones, this time.

Charles falls into Erik’s bed, laughing and tipsy and drunk on the taste of Erik’s skin, the moans and sounds Erik makes when kissed, the soft tickling of Erik’s hair against his stomach, on a Friday night.  
  
Charles’s birthday is on a Monday. The upcoming Monday, in fact.  
  
He doesn’t mention it. Not now, not when his beautiful bartender’s finally here in his bed, not laughing while Charles tries to explain his doctoral dissertation after two heavy pours of whiskey, not running out of the bar to offer his own umbrella as the cloudburst happens; not doing the complicated dance they’ve done for three months, since Erik moved to New York and got the job and left his ex behind for good, an ocean away. (Erik’s ex is a man named Sebastian Shaw, and Erik’s mouth goes thin whenever Charles hesitantly tries to ask.)  
  
Erik knows about all of Charles’s ex-partners, not that there’ve been too many. Tony had been pure fun. Moira had turned into a friend, possibly the best that Charles has ever had. Lily had broken his heart, which was how he’d met Erik, who, when Charles had ordered his fifth shot in as many minutes, had come over and put a hand on his, concerned. Charles had looked up, and their eyes had met.  
  
(Erik knows about Charles’s past relationships, but there are things Erik doesn’t know. Secrets that aren’t about his own poor choices, but much older, and darker, and painful, like the bruises and broken bones that he’d always lied about, when young.)  
  
Erik has his own unrevealed demons, and Erik has a loving mother, and Erik is unhesitatingly loyal to anyone he believes is worthy of that love. Erik looks at him as if discovering some rare exotic treasure, unique and unmatchable, and kisses him with an emotion like awe, or disbelief, or amazement that the shape of happiness can exist after all in the world; and then, at Charles’s blush and impatient embarrassed urging-on, proceeds to fuck him as if there’s nothing in the world but the two of them.  
  
Charles, who’s always loved that feeling—being claimed, adored, well-used, _wanted_ —wraps his legs around Erik’s waist, and says, “ _Yes_ ,” and Erik groans and shudders and comes inside him, and Charles comes with Erik’s orgasm ebbing inside his body and Erik’s large hand on his cock, stroking him through the ecstasy.  
  
He has quizzes to grade, over the weekend, and Erik has a double shift on Saturday which means he sleeps through most of Sunday, the two of them lying in bed, Erik’s weary legs tangled with his in the lazy sunlight and cotton sheets. (It’s Erik’s apartment, this time; Charles, who could afford a nicer place than his one-bedroom disaster area but doesn’t, likes being here, in the wide-windowed sunny loft decorated with curving metal sculpture-work, Erik’s hobby in spare moments. Erik’d asked him to come, and that had felt like freedom, like a promise, like a beginning.)  
  
Erik gets up mid-afternoon, yawning, and makes coffee for himself and tea for Charles; answers the phone, when his mother calls, and lets Charles overhear the conversation, and the noises of glee when Erik admits he’s met someone. Charles smiles, just a little, glancing down at the top quiz (three wrong answers out of four, so far), and pushes his glasses up on his nose to hide the flush; Erik breathes in, softly, and when Charles looks up those green-blue-grey eyes are wandering over him hungrily.  
  
Moira calls him Monday morning at an ungodly hour; he’s still in Erik’s bed, half-asleep and thoroughly blissful from the night before, neither of them needing to be up just yet, but of course Moira knows nothing about the way that Erik’d smiled at him on Friday after Charles’s news about his paper publication, nothing about the way that Charles, elated and celebratory and dizzy with possibilities, had leaned up and in and kissed Erik squarely on the lips, now or never, as Erik came around the bar to offer unnecessary post-champagne steadying. (Erik had kissed him back, right there in the bar, unashamed and fiercely delighted. The other patrons had cheered.)  
  
“Mmph,” Charles says, to the phone. “Go away.”  
  
“Charles,” Moira says, “where are you? I was knocking. On your door.”  
  
“What? Why?” Beside him, Erik stirs, sleepily concerned.  
  
“Breakfast?” Moira inquires. “Tradition? Starting the day with mimosas and all?”  
  
“Oh…” He curls up into Erik’s warmth. That lean body practically radiates heat; Charles basks. “That would be lovely, but I might need to…well, bring someone.”  
  
And then he has to hold the phone away from his ear while the shrieking commences. Erik raises eyebrows; Charles laughs, silently, and puts her on speakerphone. “Moira? Say hi to Erik.”  
  
“ _Erik?_ The hot bartender Erik? The one you’ve been pining after for months? Best birthday present to yourself _ever_ , Charles.”  
  
“Months?” Erik says, amused, and then, “…birthday?”  
  
“Oh fuck,” Charles says, too late. “Moira, we’ll call you back. All right?”  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re going to have sex two seconds after talking to me—don’t tell me if you were having sex _while_ talking to me—”  
  
Charles ends the call—she’ll forgive him—and then looks at Erik’s face.  
  
“It’s your birthday,” Erik says, slowly.  
  
“Well…yes?”  
  
“You…didn’t tell me. It’s…today?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Charles,” Erik says, and shakes his head, an abrupt snap of exasperation like a cold front arriving out of nowhere at all. And then gets up and goes out into the kitchen and doesn’t come back, while Charles sits there with the sheets and the silent phone and tries not to cry. (He’s good at not crying. He’d had to learn, as a child; tears would only make the fists fall harder, as his stepfather and stepbrother sneered.)  
  
Erik comes back with coffee. “I’m out of tea.” I’m. Not we’re.  
  
“Oh,” Charles says, “that’s all right,” because he feels as though he should.  
  
“I have to go to work. I told Angel last week that I’d cover for her during lunch. She has an audition. Some dance troupe.”  
  
“…all right.” He has a class to teach that afternoon, anyway.  
  
Erik studies him, frowning slightly, eyebrows drawing together. “Charles…”  
  
“It’s all right,” Charles says, one last time, “I didn’t tell you, I know, it’s my fault, but it’s not you, I just don’t tell people, it’s not a big deal, it’s only an arbitrary reckoning of time, how many times each particular person’s orbited around the sun, nothing special, we all do it once a year, and anyway we’ve only just—I didn’t want this to be—I’m going to stop talking now. And go. I’ll…go.”  
  
“Charles,” Erik says, and then they both stop, and look at each other.  
  
“Right,” Charles manages, when Erik doesn’t say anything else, “going,” and stumbles into his clothes and out the door while Erik’s still standing there looking confused.  
  
It’s a long day. His students are ridiculous, and the lab equipment’s uncooperative, and his favorite pen breaks inexplicably, so that the ink explodes across his notes and the table and his hand, and he’s able to save the data but accidentally leaves a streak of blue-black across his face when he forgets and pushes his hair out of his eyes. He realizes halfway back to his own apartment, after leaving Erik’s, that he’s left his phone, that it’s sitting there on Erik’s bed; fuck it, he thinks, exhaustedly, I’ll buy another one, and doesn’t turn back.  
  
(It might actually be nearly his worst birthday—almost, but not quite worse than the time his mother drunkenly insisted he needed a party, never mind that he was shy and geeky and had no friends at school, and invited his entire class, on the wrong day and with the incorrect age on the announcement. She’d then proceeded to work her way through the liquor cabinet while the one or two people who’d come—mostly because their parents knew exactly how much the Xavier family was worth—shuffled their feet in mortification. Charles had eventually sent them away, cleaned his mother up and put her to bed, and stepped out into the hallway to find Cain laughing at him, smudges of Charles’s birthday cake around his mouth, and a fist that slammed into his stomach with all the jealousy of a stepbrother constantly aware that the Xavier name wasn’t his.)  
  
It’s not quite that bad, because at least he’s got the memories, Erik’s body against his, Erik’s startled laugh, swift and astonished as if he can’t believe in the sound, Erik’s lips finding his in the wake of it.  
  
Maybe that makes it all worse, in the end.  
  
He stays late in the lab and doesn’t answer when _that_ phone rings—no one ever calls that line, must be a misdial—and wanders listlessly home from campus as the sun lowers, and pushes open his door, wearily, and _then_ belatedly registers the fact that his door was in fact already unlocked, what the _fuck_ , someone broke in and that’s all he needs, today, and he grabs the baseball bat out of the closet and tries not to think about actually hitting someone with it as he takes a step.  
  
“You can leave now,” he says. “Who—whoever you are. If you go, now, I won’t—we don’t have to do anything, I won’t call the police, or—”  
  
Erik steps into view, around the corner.  
  
“Oh god,” Charles says, and drops the bat, and backs up, and runs into the open closet door. “You—but— _Erik_.”  
  
“Charles—” Erik looks both frantic and unsure. It’s a worrying combination; Charles has never seen him display either of those emotions before. “You—you were gone—I couldn’t find you—”  
  
“I had to teach—”  
  
“You were done at four.” Erik knows his schedule? “And you—no one answered in your lab, and you hadn’t been home, and I couldn’t—I have your phone, here—” One hand holds his mobile out; Charles takes it, automatically.  
  
“I _knew_ that door was locked…How’d you get in?”  
  
“I…know some things. About getting into places. Charles, please—” Erik grabs his hand, before he can pull away. “I know I handled this badly. This morning. I just—I thought we were—I thought you wanted—more. What I wanted. With you. And you told Moira, and not me—”  
  
“Moira’s known for years—”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” Erik takes a step forward. Tugs until Charles moves closer; puts one arm around him, then, when Charles doesn’t move away, the other. “I realized…you were gone. And I made you leave. And I can’t—if there are things you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, I can wait, but I can’t wake up tomorrow without you. Whatever pieces of you that…whatever you feel ready to give me. Anything. It’ll be enough. I can’t lose you.”  
  
“Oh,” Charles says, unless that’s a sob, and it’s kind of hard to tell with his face buried in Erik’s shoulder that way.  
  
“Shh,” Erik whispers, and those hands shake, briefly, against his skin. “It’s all right, you can cry, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, Charles, no matter what,” and, when Charles nods damply, actually picks him up and bodily carries him over to the dilapidated sofa.  
  
“Well. You’re very strong.”  
  
“I…told you I was good at getting into places. But that’s not all. Charles, I…” Erik hesitates. “I’ve done some terrible things. I’ve hurt people. I never told you. I never wanted to tell you. You were so…when we met, and you looked at me like you wanted to kiss me…”  
  
“Sebastian Shaw,” Charles says, putting it together, and Erik nods. “But I left, Charles, I left him, and all of that, I couldn’t—the things he wanted to do, in the end, I couldn’t be a part of that—and then I came here. And I got a job. In a bar. And I saw you.”  
  
“I’ve never celebrated my birthday,” Charles tells him. Bravery for bravery. “Moira, and the mimosas…that’s a celebration of the day I became legally an adult. Free.”  
  
“Free—”  
  
“My stepfather broke my ribs one year. And then there was the year that Cain—my stepbrother, sorry—pushed me down the stairs. I landed on my back. The doctors weren’t certain I’d walk again.” He’d spent months in a wheelchair, in therapy, in recovery. Should’ve meant a respite; but it hadn’t.  
  
Erik’s arms loosen around him, in shock.  
  
“Anyway.” He can’t meet those eyes, not now that Erik knows. Knows precisely how damaged he is. How much baggage, tattered and torn. “If you want—I appreciate you bringing back my phone, thank you—if you don’t want to stay—”  
  
Erik mutters something extremely obscene, involving several languages and multiple profanities, and then pulls him into a crushing kiss, overwhelming and powerful and desperate.  
  
“…oh,” Charles says, weakly, after.  
  
“I love you.” Erik’s running both hands along his face, through his hair, cupping his cheeks. “I love you, Charles. You have ink on your nose, and I’d kill anyone who ever hurt you if you asked me for that, and I love you.”  
  
“I love you,” Charles whispers back, wide-eyed and near tears, breathless and exhausted and sincere, and Erik murmurs something in a language that might be German, something that sounds both like a blasphemy and sheer awe, and then, “I bought tea. For you.”  
  
“…tea?”  
  
Erik hovers, looks undecided, demands, “Stay put,” sprints into the kitchen, and then runs back before Charles has time to do more than blink after him.  
  
“Here.” A picture, on Erik’s phone: boxes of tea, canisters of tea, packages of tea, spilling over Charles’s inadequate countertops. He spots a package labeled Earl Grey, and hibiscus-pineapple, and ginger-blueberry, and vanilla-bean rooibos, and others he’s never even heard of. “I didn’t know what you liked. What you might want. I just asked in the shop for some of everything.”  
  
“You certainly did,” Charles observes, still a little stunned; and then he looks up from the picture and sees those anxious eyes, searching for his. “You bought me tea. On my birthday.”  
  
“I did…”  
  
“I won’t ever want a party,” Charles tells him, “probably. I’m not good at parties, on my birthday. Something to keep in mind. For the future.”  
  
“For…the…Charles, are you saying—”  
  
“I’m saying I think I could…try celebrating, at least. Being here. With tea. And you.”


End file.
